Lines We Forget Read Free Page A

privileged upbringings.
    “No problem, it’s one of my favourites.”
    He bows his head a little and continues to stare. The busy pedestrians and October winds fill the gap of awkward silence until she feels the need to express again just why she felt compelled to throw in money. Cross over. Gawk and stare. A casual enough reason she hopes he’ll take as a compliment, and which will distract him from asking why she’s sheepishly idling in front of him.
    “That one you were just playing, it’s actually a song I really love. Haven’t heard in a while. Ages even.”
    Anna thinks she hears the words “hoped you” and “might” come from his lips, but the wind picks up and everything around them fights against it to be heard. Instead she chalks it up to her wistful and desperate imagination.
    When Guitar Guy adjusts his hat, she wonders how nice it might be to see him without it, picturing a mess of straw-coloured, tousled hair underneath just waiting to tumble out.
    Aware of the swarming masses and just how close she is to a large crack in the pavement that keeps on filling with rainwater at an alarming rate, she takes a step back and forgets to filter her thoughts.
    “You come here often?” she says, cringing instantly at how brash and god-awful cliché it sounds—unoriginal and stupid. She keeps on stuttering, trying to find a way to erase the embarrassment of the last few seconds until he laughs and rests his arms over the body of the guitar, eyebrows raised by the smile on his lips.
    “Every Thursday actually,” he offers, “and a few Tuesdays, some Sundays but usually only in the summer.”
    Letting her hair fly freely against the wind, Anna pushes her chin down into her scarf and rubs her numb hands together. “If only it were summer now. You must be bloody freezing.” Just to illustrate her point, she nods towards his hands, the soggy laces on his boots, and back up to the drops of rain that tumble from the tip of his nose.
    With a small sigh, he tells her that he’s gotten used to being out in the cold, amongst the harsh British elements. “The rush hour crush brings in a steady audience so I can’t complain too much,” he adds after another long bout of silence, which Anna spends smiling like a loon.
    “So, you like that version I played then?” Guitar Guy says. “I actually messed up a little on the last verse. Forgot the lines. Got a bit distracted.”
    She nods too enthusiastically, tripping over her words. “It was great. I heard it from across the road and thought you sang it really well, actually. Just as good as the original.”
    “Guess I’ll take that, thanks.” He gives her a thumbs-up even though his hands look like they’re frostbitten.
    Pointing down at the now-wet coins in his case, she says, “I’m sorry I don’t have much else to give.” Even though she knows there’s a five-pound note in her other pocket.
    He shrugs his shoulders, slowly grins. “Every little helps, right? You know, as the saying goes.”
    Anna thinks she could admire a smile like that forever. The comparisons to Mark and guys before, like the Toms and Jacks, start up again. A habit she just can’t quit. Always comparing, wishing for something else, whilst being with someone else.
    She feels her cheeks flush from thoughts she hopes she hasn’t said aloud. So she tries to crack a joke. “Well you know, next time you’ll have to catch me on payday.”
    Guitar Guy’s eyes grow wide and he gazes at the puddle below his boots, shifts them round and asks, “Next time?”
    “Well, I meant that as a joke. I didn’t mean I’d be actually coming back here on payday.” Anna hates how her jaw feels frozen tight.
    “I got what you meant. Don’t worry about it,” he assures her, as a young and attractive blonde walks up to drop some change into his case.
    “Hey, Charlie,” the slim, pretty girl says. Her voice is husky and so unashamedly seductive it makes Anna’s ears wince.
    “Thanks, Lola, hope